


It's Okay

by Lackaday



Category: More than Meets the Eye - Fandom, Transformers Generation One, Transformers:, Transformers: More than Meets the Eye
Genre: Implied Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lackaday/pseuds/Lackaday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tailgate wakes up to find that his legs aren't working anymore.<br/>Angsty fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Okay

”Cy-C-Cyclonus?….Cyclonus, pl-please,”

There was a pause, the purple mech was facing away from him. “What.”

“I can’t get up. I ca-I can’t get my my-my legs wont wor-” Tailgate made a choked sound as his vocalizor cut off.

There was another pause, filled by Tailgate’s uneven venting which was getting less restrained by the click. Cyclonus sank into what Tailgate had just said, marinating in it and letting the weight of it seep into the cracks of his processor. Tailgate was paralyzed, and would be completely immobile by tomorrow. And dead one day later.

There was a sniveling, grimy sound behind him coming from the compact blue and white mech. Cyclonus looked sidelong over his shoulder at the other’s tiny frame and noticed how it shook with a frustrated internal sob.

“Cy-Cyclonu-” Tailgate didn't have time to finish his thought before he was swept up into the arms of the much larger and stronger mech. Without a word or response to Tailgate’s squeaks and tear laced murmurs, he carried him to the energon dispenser, Tailgate got his morning energon cube, then was carted back to the berth were Cyclonus sat him in his lap.

“Savor feeding yourself. I’ll have to do it for you soon.” Came Cyclonus’ voice rumbling like distant thunder against Tailgate’s audio receptor.

Sliding the panel on his mask down, he lifted the cube and drank. He was ashamed of the tiny voice in his spark saying ‘yes, please feed me’ for it yelled too loudly against the wash of depression and sadness which consumed the rest of his spark. At the moment he was fixated on how the one person he wanted to be there with him as he slowly and painfully burnt out like a birthday candle was also the one person he didn’t want to see himself in such a state.

Cyclonus sank his chin down to rest on Tailgate’s flat helm and his arms wound themselves around the tiny frame, as if holding him would keep his spark from turning against itself. When Tailgate finished the cube, he set it down, and places his hands over top of Cyclonus’. He nestled into the crevices and bends on the purple armor and placed his hands on top of Cyclonus’ clawed ones. This was the closest they’d ever been to each other, and it was comfortable, it was warm, it was good.

The two stayed like that for a while, as if one click had been suspended into many and time would not pass as long as they remained still and comfortable. Tailgate turned his impending end over in his processor and felt as though he was slipping through the cracks in Cyclonus’ fingers by a steady river. He was interrupted when Cyclonus began to sing, deeply and like a tremor, a song slow and mournful in old Cybertronian. Tailgate couldn't understand what the words meant, but the emotion rang through and reverberated inside his chassis.

Cyclonus didn’t stop, only muffled his song by humming it into Tailgates helm while the smaller mech tensed into a sob which led to coolent tears sliding down his mask as his vents hitched and stalled and hitched and stalled. Tailgate couldn’t control his choked sobs or the way he shook in the large, comforting arms. He hated himself, he hated how his time was running out, he hated how nice Cyclonus’ lips against the top of his helm felt, he hated how he couldn’t stop crying, and he hated how helpless he was.

He shook with another sob, turning in Cyclonus’ lap to nuzzle affectionately into him as if hiding there could protect him from the future. It prompted the jet to wrap his arms around Tailgate just a little tighter, brushing his tips of his claws over Tailgate’s back, prompting a surprised squeek and shiver from the bot. Cyclonus started to take his hand away.

A quiet “W-wait,” caused him to rest it back on Tailgate’s hip, sliding his claw tips across his back again in an affectionate manner. Tailgate nuzzled the bend in Cyclonus’ chest warmly, the metal sliding smoothly against each other. He could just hear the rhythm of Cyclonus’ inner workings and feel the steadiness of his venting.

Tailgate’s small white hands working its way over Cyclonus’ plating to rest possessively around his middle sent waves of sparks with each gentle touch along Cyclonus’ chest and up his spine.

He leaned his head down to Tailgates neck to kiss it and nuzzle his nose into the side of Tailgate’s mask. He whispered deeply into the small mech’s audio receptor, “It’s going to be okay.”


End file.
